


It's okay now

by AliceDays



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceDays/pseuds/AliceDays
Summary: Here is my hugging scene fix-it. How it should have been. How John Watson and Sherlock Holmes deserved it to be.





	

Never before has Sherlock wanted so much to listen to one's thoughts. Not 'read', not foresee or even just deduct - but actually listen. He desires to listen to the other side of the conversation. He wants – so badly it hurts – to understand what the internal dialogue with John’s own subconscious is. He is confessing the darkest part of his own guilt to the memory of his dead wife. John is hurting, has been hurting since it happened, but it is now, right there, in the silence of his living room, that Sherlock witnesses to the brake down, to the reprimanded sentiment flood away in pained, choked words.  
Whatever it is that John's subconscious responds to his confession, it makes him cry. That's when Sherlock hurts the most, his heart tightening and freezing inside his chest. He didn't listen as he had wished for, but it hurt him physically to see John's face twist in a painful grimace, full tears fall from his eyes a moment before his hand covered them and the sound of his voice as he cries, unable to hold it in.  
The tea cup is heavy in his hands as he lifts it to rest it on the coffee table by his side. His heart is heavy and beating fast as he forces himself up – he hurts everywhere and cannot tell physical from emotional pain anymore. He fears John will shout at him again. He dreads to hear him say he doesn’t want him around; he is terrified that John will refuse him, but none of it stops him from taking a sure step towards him, entering his personal space, John’s silvery head lined with his chest. His right hand comes up John’s back, just barely touching him, until it rests on the nape of his neck – the only exposed skin there is to be touched right now, as if his hand has its own mind, as if it searched for skin, for warmth, to give and take comfort – and his never-stopping mind rushes back to the wedding, to his speech as best-man, to John’s his and his hand cradling his own neck. He had been glad to be all covered up for the shiver he had felt from head to toe was unnoticed.  
John doesn’t pull away like Sherlock was sure he would. He just stand there, hand still covering his eyes, tears falling freely down to the carpet as Sherlock’s other hand steady John against him, softly rubbing his arm.  
“It’s okay,” he hears the sound of his own whisper over the thundering of his heart.  
“It’s not okay,” John tells him with a broken voice, a sound Sherlock had never heard before and wished he would never have to.  
He realizes his mistake. It really is not okay. Nothing is okay when John is in pain. Nothing in the world is fine if John Watson has reasons to be crying like this, to need comfort so desperately. Sherlock wants to cry too. This could be a moment of realization for him, a moment like this could make anyone understand just how enormously in love they are, but he has always known. John had taken hold of his heart so long ago and is still clueless about it.  
“No…” he whispers gravelly, briefly thinking if John can listen to his heart thundering inside his chest. “But it is what it is.”  
John doesn’t answer. He cries for longer than Sherlock expected, but he doesn’t move away, not even an inch. He doesn’t plan on moving ever again if this is what John needs. His only movement if to run his hand down his arm and up again, slowly, gently showing him he is there, that he is not alone. Minutes go by uncounted when it’s just the two of them standing here, John gradually calming down but still not moving away. He goes silent now, of not for his quiet sniffing. Sherlock asks himself if he should move away, give him space or just stay there holding him, unsure in this unprecedented situation. There’s movement in the region if his chest now, John’s hand uncovering his eyes only to rest by his forehead, flat on Sherlock’s chest. Now he is sure John can feel his heart, but for some reason he doesn’t mind. He owns it, his heart. He feels John’s other hand also coming up to rest on his chest and Sherlock’s heart skip a beat. He doesn’t dare to move and maybe he isn’t even breathing, all he can feel now are John’s both hand on his chest, on either side of his forehead. John is quiet for a moment, just there for a few more seconds until he lifts his head. Sherlock looks down and sees when John opens his eyes – they are red and puffy, shinning with the remaining tears – and looks straight at him, lips tight, chin still slightly trembling.  
His face is wet with tears and Sherlock won’t have it. He let’s go of John’s arm, fingers pulling the cuff of his robe over his hand, and brings it up again, to his wet cheeks, and starts drying it, eyes following the fabric, studying his face. He used the same cuff to dry the other side, unwilling to stop holding John’s neck.  
“It’s –” John tries but stops to clear his throat, voice hoarse from crying. “It’s not Irene, is it?”  
Sherlock’s hand return to his arm as he smiles. A little, shy sad smile as he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Oh, John. It’s never been.”  
Realization fills the blue of John’s eyes, their slight widening freezing Sherlock on spot. John takes in a sudden, short breath; eyes leaving the taller man’s to get lost into his own thoughts as he stares at his chest. He is going to pull away now, Sherlock is sure about it, he is just waiting for John to make the first movement so he can also let go; he won’t be the first one to let go, though, even if he wants to, even if he dreads the rejection that is about to come, he just can’t move away.   
And then John whimpers, his breath ragged and then he is pulling Sherlock down to him, a hand also grabbing the nape of his neck guiding him into a hug, a fierce, tight hug, and now both men’s arms are around each other, John’s face buried onto Sherlock’s neck, his hot breath raising goose bumps all over his body.  
“I’m sorry,” his muffled voice cries and Sherlock feels the wetness of the tears that are once again falling. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry!”  
“No… No, John, for what?”  
“All I’ve done… It wasn’t your fault and I’ve pushed you away, and I’ve hurt you, oh, God, Sherlock, what did I do?” He is sobbing desperately now, clinging to Sherlock’s back fiercely, words raining out of his mouth. “I hit you, Sherl – oh, god, I kicked you on the floor, I’m so sorry, I don’t deserve – I’ll never forgive, I’m so sorry!”  
“Shhh…” Sherlock found himself shushing and holding him just as strongly. “I’s okay, John it will be okay… It’s okay.”  
“It’s not okay!”, he repeated.  
“But it will be. John, it will be okay. Shh…”  
Once again, Sherlock holds John until he calms down, sobs subsiding, but this time John lets go sooner, arms still around his neck, looking up at him. Sherlock can’t believe how close their faces are now. “You didn’t break any vow, Sherlock, and I’ll make my own now. I’ll never hurt you again. In no way.” The hand on Sherlock’s neck tugs him down making their foreheads touch and rest together. John can feel Sherlock’s nervous breath, his is sure, but unable to even try to control it. “We’ve lost… I’m so sorry we’ve lost all this time. It was there all the time, wasn’t it?”  
“Yes.”  
“You were here all the time.”  
“I was. And John…” he pauses, their eyes staring into each other’s so closely their eyelashes almost touched. “I still am.”  
John whimpers again, but it’s different this time. It’s not pained and it’s not followed by sorrow tears. It is a whimper of anticipation and it’s followed by the sudden touch of their lips, both of them moving to the other at the same time, as one. Sherlock is sure he’s just whimpered as well, maybe this is their new way to communicate, but he is too busy to think right now. John is kissing him, pressing his lips onto his firmly but gently and the thudding chest is not only his own anymore.  
“It’s okay,” John whispers against his lips, never letting go. “It’s okay now.”


End file.
